interline
by pekuxumi
Summary: LIFELINES 'VERSE (part 2 of 3). Set one week after the epilogue of Lifelines: When Dick finally wakes up, there's nothing in the way of a quick recovery, right? Wrong. Contains POVs of ALL the members of the Batfam, rated T for language and serious themes (sickness, death, depression and all that stuff), AU-ish, NO SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Hey everyone! Finally, the long awaited Lifelines sequel! Or the first lifelines sequel, to be precise, because this is actually just an interlude-like bridge between the original story and the sequel, which will take place some time after (hence the title. It's kind of between the lines of the two big stories, get it? Yes? ...Oh God I HATE making up names, so sorry.). When I planned the sequel, I noticed that I'm missing out too much good stuff.. because really, aren't we all here for the hurt/comfort? And no h/c like hospital h/c._

_You should have read Lifelines first, else this will be very confusing. If you don't want to, PM me and I'll send you a synopsis._

_This story takes place one week after the end of Lifelines; that's 5 weeks after Dick's bone marrow transplantation all in all. I don't think I'll have to explain any of the medical terms this time, but if you have any questions or demands, just write me and I'll add/edit it! And now, have fun!_

* * *

**DAMIAN**

_-one week after the epilogue of 'Lifelines'- _

Grayson, of course, had to wake up in the one moment Damian didn't want him to.

Drake was asleep when Damian entered Dick's room in Gotham General, slumped in the only chair by the window. The ex-assassin had half a mind to yell at him for worrying him like that; Timothy was supposed to pick him up from school. Damian knew that Drake had visited Dick earlier, and when he didn't show up after school the boy's head had been full of apocalyptic scenarios happening in the hospital.

The bus drive had taken ages, every stop and old granny that needed to buy a ticket straining Damian's nerves. When he finally arrived at the hospital and threw Dick's door open, he had been holding his breath in foreboding.

Grayson had given them enough reason to worry during the last months, even after the bone marrow transplantation. The graft had begun to produce healthy white blood cells quickly and no signs of rejection had come up. The coma inducing drugs were taken off soon after, but Grayson still hadn't woken up as predicted. He needed new vaccinations against hepatitis, polio and whatnot since he had lost all of his acquired immune defences with his old immune system, and the new, inexperienced one reacted to every invasion with exaggerated force. There had been so many fevers and seizures that no one had bothered to count. The medical personal had assured them that everything was normal procedure, but Damian's level of tolerance had sunken with every new emergency call. The chances that something had happened and Drake hadn't been able to leave the hospital were therefore pretty high.

But everything was fine; Dick was sleeping in his bed just as he should be, no strange cumbersome machines attached or beeping irregularly. Drake had fallen asleep while visiting their older brother and had simply missed their appointment.

Last night had ended in a lot of blood and stabbing, and Damian and Drake were both banned from patrol for two weeks. Since Pennyworth had slipped a drug into Father's drink to make him rest, it had been up to Drake and himself to write the reports and do damage control, and neither had gotten much sleep. Just thinking about it made Damian yawn, so he couldn't really blame Drake. The older vigilante had suffered the worst injuries, and would surely cry in pain like a little girl if he were awake.

Damian didn't need that. Instead he decided that he needed a place to sleep, too. Just for a few minutes, and then he'd call Pennyworth to take over their watch.

There wasn't another chair in the room, though. Damian thought about roaming the hospital wing for another one, scratching his itching wound absent-mindedly. Pennyworth's pain medication was wearing off, and Damian had half a mind to go search for Thompkins. She should change their bandages later that day anyway... but he was so tired right now. Drake's light snoring and Grayson's deep breaths were like a lullaby, making his eyelids drop.

But then he noticed that there was enough space on the hospital bed. Father had paid for a large one with a special mattress to save Grayson from bed sores, and the unconscious man had lost so much weight during the months of his illness that more than half of the mattress' width was left unoccupied if he lay on his side like now.

Damian was still not used to seeing Dick like that. No muscles, no energy, attached to way too many tubes. He couldn't match this patient to the image of the hyperactive vigilante in his memory. It had been several weeks now since the chemo had stopped for good; Dick's hair was growing back and the hospital staff was steadily increasing the amount of artificial feeding. Dick wasn't as thin as he had been, Damian knew, but still far away from healthy. It had become easier to look at him when the raven hair had returned, even though it was still short and amusingly had begun to curl. 'Chemo curls', Drake had called them, apparently a normal post-chemo phenomenon.

Grayson was going to be_ so_ pissed when he woke up..

_When_ he woke up. He should have a while ago. The doctors said they needed to give him time, that he had been through much... As if they didn't know. As if they hadn't been _there_ all the way. The waiting was killing Damian. He wanted things to go back to normal, to be annoyed by Grayson's cuddles and loud laughter. He _missed_ Dick.

Deep in those thoughts, Damian had made his way to the bed and had slipped out of his sneakers. He climbed onto the mattress, careful not to disturb any of the tubes Dick was attached to. He could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks for no reason at all; it wasn't his damn fault that there wasn't more space to lay down in this stupid hospital room! He just needed to rest for a few minutes, just close his eyes a bit before (Drake woke up and saw him) calling Pennyworth...

Damian had done this a a few times already, when he was alone with Grayson or tired. Pennyworth had told him once that Grayson was a kinesthetic person – he needed touch and movement to communicate, to feel comforted... Gordon was taking advantage of that, shamelessly heaving herself out of her wheelchair and lying down next to Grayson every time she visited, laughing at Damian's indignation.

But it was true, when Dick had still been in critical condition, his heart beat irregular and fast when nobody else was there, but he had calmed down when Damian leaned against Grayson's chest or snuggled his way under his arm. Kinesthetic indeed. Damian had to admit that he might have a kinesthetic streak in himself, too, for it made him feel better as well.

Not that he would tell anyone. _Ever._

Damian sighed aloud and scolded himself for being so uselessly emotional again. Dick would wake up soon, there were signs. He had begun to move, to shift around a few weeks ago already. When the docs decided to discontinue the coma medicine, the movements underneath Dick's eyelids started and became stronger with each day – he was sleeping now, dreaming, instead of being unconscious. There wasn't much of a difference in Damian's opinion – he had tried to wake his big brother up a couple of times and it hadn't worked – but admittedly 'sleeping' sounded better than 'unconscious'.

Damian was caught up in trying to ignore any Grayson-induced mushy feelings and taking care about the Hickman's catheter that was still attached to his brother's chest, and only realized what was going on when he took a second look. He had just stuck his feet under the blanket when he noticed a blotch of colour that hadn't been there a second ago.

Dazed, blue eyes were looking back at him, heavy with sleep.

Damian froze in mid-movement.

_Holy shit._

"Dick?" Damian swallowed, trying to get some strength into his voice again. "Grayson?"

Dick was blinking two times, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. His pupils were blown, and there was no trace of recognition in them. Damian remembered how to move when those glazed eyes started to drift shut again.

"Drake, wake up! _Timothy_!" the boy shouted and untangled himself from the blankets in mild panic. The movement seemed to startle Grayson, who began to blink rapidly to stay awake.

Drake was cursing silently when he woke up, probably believing that something dramatic had happened while he had slept. "What's going on, is everything al-... _oh my God_."

They both stared down at their elder brother who had just then decided to go back to sleep. They were quiet for a second, until hell broke lose.

"Call Bruce!" Drake hissed, shoving Damian out of the way. He was grinning madly, even though there was obvious panic in his eyes. "No, call Alfred at the manor. _No_, call Leslie!"

"Make up your mind, Drake," Damian mumbled sullenly and grabbed his cell phone.

"Leslie, call Leslie first, and I'll call Bruce. Dick. Dick, wake up..." Contrary to his words, Timothy began to gently shake Grayson's shoulders to coax him back to awareness. He was rewarded with an unhappy grunt and twitching eyelids.

Damian had made his way to the hospital intercom, but thought better of it when a bored nurse answered. He punched Dr. Thompkins' number in as Drake began to melt down. With the phone ringing his ears, he watched how Drake tried to keep Dick awake, get to his phone to call Father and shout orders at him simultaneously. Needless to say, he was failing miserably. When they both stood in the room, waiting for the person on the other line to pick up, Drake was basically vibrating in edginess. He looked at Damian's feet with irritation. _Shit, _he was still in socks...

"Damian, what were you doing in Dick's bed just now?" he asked, but luckily for Damian Leslie Thompkins' voice chirped up just then.

"_Damian? Everything alright with Dick?"_

Damian turned away from Drake and headed out onto the floor, hiding the blush on his cheeks and the bright grin on his face.

* * *

Father appeared on the far end of the hallway about thirty minutes later and broke into a light jog when he saw his two youngest sons standing in front of the door to Dick's room.

"How is he? Did he say anything? Is Leslie here already?" he breathed out before even greeting them, obviously completely excited and full of adrenaline.

Damian's father must have come straight from a business conference, judged by the way that he was dressed. The current Robin wondered briefly how he had managed to get away that fast, but then again this was Bruce Wayne. He _was_ the business conference.

"Leslie is with him right now, we don't know if he woke up again in the meantime," Drake answered, eyes twinkling. He hadn't stopped smiling this irritating smile all the time, and it was beginning to freak Damian out.

Bruce nodded hurriedly and reached for the door handle.

"She wants to be alone with him," Drake piped up.

Father swore under his breath and gritted his teeth. Damian hadn't seen him that agitated before, as if he was going to explode any minute. Not even when they had to wait for the bone marrow transplant to graft had he been this jittery. "Goddamnnit. Did she say _anything_ yet?"

"Yeah," Drake sighed. "She said we should calm the fuck down before we have a heart attack."

That made Father halt, and a small smile appeared on his lips. He visibly relaxed. "So he really woke up?"

"Just for a few seconds. Damian was just -"

"_Fuck off, Drake!_"

"_Language,_ young man. Did he say anything?"

"No, he didn't seem as if he understood what was going on." Damian thought back to those glazed, confused eyes.

Father opened his mouth to say something else, but Thompkins opened the door just then. She smiled warmly when she saw that Bruce had arrived in the meantime and then raised a ironic brow at Damian's bare feet.

Damian growled. Shit, she had probably seen his shoes right beside the bed...

"Leslie," Father began, urgently. "How is he?"

"As fine as can be expected." The doctor shrugged. "He woke up when I shook him, but he can't stay awake for more than a few seconds, and I don't think he's been awake enough to grasp where he is."

Father nodded grimly. "When will he wake up properly?"

Leslie shrugged. "I don't know. Soon, probably. Have you decided what to tell him?"

With that one question the whole joyous atmosphere dropped, and they looked at Bruce gloomily. There was a lot to tell Dick – that he was going to live. That he was going to live because Bruce Wayne had completely ignored his living will. That he had done so because they found out that he had become sick because of an crazy genius that had poisoned him with benzene over the course of months. Todd was Nightwing. They had had a family trip over to Europe and beaten a guy unconscious to steal his bone marrow. Alfred had been playing doctor and treated another potential donor for days with drugs. Father had bribed half the hospital to keep Dick alive. _A lot_ to tell him.

They had talked about it a few times, but hadn't come up with anything so far. Of course they needed to tell him the truth, but when? Todd wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, and Damian was inclined to agree with him. Dick wasn't going to be happy when he discovered what they had kept from him so long. But then again he did need to rest, to recover in peace and with their help. He would explode like a volcano as soon as he heard of Father's messing with the living will, but there was just no way he would be able to get back on his feet without Father's help.

"Don't upset him," Leslie warned when she sensed the tension. "He'll be very weak for a while, and he'll need every bit of strength to recover."

Bruce nodded again and looked sharply at his two sons. They nodded mechanically – the matter was decided, apparently. Of course it would be Father who decided what to tell him when. Todd was going to be pissed, but he, too, wouldn't do anything to endanger Grayson further.

"Can we wake him up?" Father asked and grabbed the door handle again.

Thompkins moved out of the way. "You can try, but better let him sleep. He'll wake up when he's ready."

* * *

**BRUCE**

_-a few days later-_

It took a while for Dick to come to again, and even longer until he was coherent enough to have a real conversation. He was still on heavy medication – the immunosuppressive drugs made sure that the possibilities of a belated Graft-vs-Host reaction and a relapse were diminished, but also kept him weak and susceptible to infections and illnesses.

When he began to wake up sporadically, Bruce had made sure that there was always someone in the room. It wasn't much of an effort, to be honest, since Dick's room would have been crowded anyway if it weren't for the strict hygienic rules Leslie had established to keep as many germs and viruses out as possible. When the news about Dick's recovery had made the round, it had been hard to keep people from climbing in the windows or through the ventilation shafts to see him.

It was too early for him to have a longer conversation, or to concentrate on more than one person at a time. With his memory blurry and his mind perpetually feverish or tired, he couldn't really follow longer explanations and drifted back to sleep after a few minutes. It was strange for Bruce to see his son like that; Dick had always been so attentive and sharp. When the chemo had taken a hold on him, they had easily calmed themselves with blaming the treatment which would end soon. Now, though, Dick's recovery seemed endless.

Bruce knew that was wrong. Steadily, Dick managed to stay awake for longer, to remember more, to think clearer. Yesterday he had begun to ask questions, which was supposedly a huge progress, but made Bruce's insides churn – of course he wouldn't tell his son about Freeze and the manipulated living will, but on the other side he didn't want to lie to him even more. The guilt he felt since he first replicated the will had gnawed a hole through his chest. He had managed to ignore it during the hot phase of treatment and transplantation, but now he knew he had to face it.

Bruce Wayne wasn't good at facing his inner demons. He was much better at dressing as a giant bat and hissing 'I am the night'.

He had to stay focused and careful now, because his eldest son tended to follow the same path, even if he was still a lot more honest with himself than Bruce ever had hope to be. This time, though, Dick wouldn't be able to work his frustration out physically, not for a long while. It was going to be hell for the boy, and Bruce felt guilty and responsible.

"Bruce, hey..."

Dick's raspy voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Bruce had noticed him stirring twenty minutes ago already, but had decided to let him take his time waking up properly. Dick would call if he wanted to talk or needed something, else he would let him have some time for himself. There were people in his room constantly, and surely Dick appreciated a few moments to get his thoughts into order now and then.

Bruce dropped the newspaper he had been staring at unseeingly now and rolled his eyes immediately. Dick was weakly patting down the bed rails in search for the remote control of the hospital bed _again._

With a discontented growl, Bruce walked up to the bed and pushed the well-hidden button that automatically elevated the headboard of the bed. Just yesterday Dick had somehow managed to get hold of the device and got into a sitting position, only to become so dizzy that he passed out. Bruce had hoped his pigheaded son had learned a lesson out of that, but apparently he was wrong – Dick was pouting at him sullenly when Bruce stopped the headboard at a reasonable height.

The recovery at home was going to be a blast.

"How are you?" He asked gently, sitting down next to the bed on a chair.

"Marvellous... you?" The tone was ironic, but Bruce had to smile nonetheless. Inquiring about people's wellbeing despite being obviously the one in trouble was just such a Dick thing to do. It felt wonderful to hear.

"Fine. Alfred and the boys are fine, too."

Dick nodded slightly and rubbed a hand across his eyes to fight the incessant tiredness. For a second he stopped the movement and followed the IV-line that was attached to the port in his arm to the infusion bag above his head. He seemed content with what he saw there, but it made Bruce worry – he had observed him doing this a few times now already, ever since he began to wake up and recognize his surroundings.

"What do you keep checking up there?" he asked therefore, a suspicion already in the back of his mind that made the hair on his neck stand up.

Dick was still a bit slow on the uptake, and blinked at him for a second before he got what Bruce was talking about. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders weakly. "Checking if I get chemo."

Suspicion affirmed,_ crap_. They had talked about chemo once or twice, but Dick's memory and retentiveness were pretty unstable. Bruce looked at his son scrutinizingly; he seemed fine today, extraordinary so. No glassy eyes, reasonable complexion compared to the ghastly paleness of a few weeks ago. The medication was still having a strong effect on him and made him sluggish and tired, but he hadn't been that aware since he woke up last week. Maybe it was time to try to have a real talk.

"You don't get chemo anymore, Dick," he said gently, reaching out for one of his son's hands after a short internal debate. He had promised to be more attentive after the communicative disasters Dick's leukemia had presented them with, and if he couldn't tell him half of what really happened, he had to make the few truths count.

Dick's gaze dropped to Bruce's hand, face serious. Bruce couldn't help but think that he should be more elated about that fact, now that he surely was able to grasp it. The lack of joy was freaking him out a bit, quite frankly.

"Uhh, yes.. about that," Dick began with a quiet voice, and Bruce leaned closer to hear everything. "The doc probably told you everything by now, right?"

"Yes. What are you getting at?"

Dick pulled away his hand and crossed his arms, averting his face. This was becoming bizarre.

"Listen, I'm.. I should have told you sooner, but.."

_Huh?_ "Told me what? Dick?"

Had he misjudged Dick's condition? He didn't seem to speak coherently. Worriedly, Bruce checked the jags of the silent EKG and the numbers that indicated Dick's blood pressure. They were enhanced, but far from alarming. Bruce furrowed his brow and tried to find our what it was he was missing, until Dick spoke up again and Bruce's insides froze over.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to learn it from a doctor... but.. I just couldn't.."

And really, he was the biggest idiot _ever_. The piece he had been missing was so big, he had not seen the forest for the trees. Jesus Christ the fucking _trees_ had better communicative skills than he had. At least now he knew where Dick's memory became spotty.

"Dick," he interrupted his son's choked out confessions therefore with a firm and loud voice. "Wait. That's not it. That's not why you don't get chemo any more."

He had forgotten to tell his son that he wasn't dying, holy shit. Dick looked at him confusedly now, breathing shallower already, and Bruce knew he had to hurry. He had been awake for more than twenty minutes now, pretty long for his standards.

"You were out for a while, and things were touch-and-go. But you're okay now. We fixed it." Dick's eyes widened, surprised but unbelieving. From the corner of his eye, Bruce could see the jags of the EKG fastening._ Oh, no. Not happening._

It was a good thing Leslie had brought back the monitor system after Dick woke up – they couldn't risk to upset him too much. Therefore, Bruce reached carefully for the IV-line that was connected to an infusion spiked with medication. Without Dick noticing it, he turned the little cogwheel that controlled the flow and amplified the medication dosage.

"I don't... you fixed _what_?" Dick was already zoning out again, but Bruce couldn't tell if it was already due to the meds or to tiredness in general.

"We found a bone marrow match, Dick." Bruce shifted from the chair to the bedside. "The transplantation happened while you were unconscious, and it worked out. You'll be fine."

Bright, confused eyes. "Fine?" He repeated.

"You don't have leukemia any more. You survived it," Bruce clarified. The jags on the EKG still were quickening, but the numbers that indicated Dick's blood pressure stayed even. That was good; the medicine was working, then. Dick was blinking now, confused and exhausted.

"But.. how.."

"You're tired, you should sleep," Bruce interrupted firmly. It was painful to watch how Dick tried to digest this new information. He had been sure the illness was terminal, and even though he had never really worked it through, he had accepted it to be the truth. Now suddenly it wasn't. Bruce remembered more than one incident on the streets when he had been sure he was bound to die that night, that minute, and then something had happened. He remembered the incredulity, the many feelings that were rushing towards him. And those were just minutes of being sure to die; Dick's situation must be so much worse.

The drugs hit visibly, suddenly Dick's eyes, a second ago wide and confused, were half-closed. "I don't.. not logical.._._"

"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow," Bruce ordered and was relieved to see Dick obeying. His eyelids fell shut and he relaxed immediately, falling asleep on the spot.

Bruce allowed himself to breathe again and groaned silently. That could have gone worse, though also a lot better. He had high hopes that Dick remembered their talk, at least partly, but they would definitely have to talk about it properly. He wasn't looking forward to that; Bruce had been swamped with this short conversation already.

He had to update the others. He couldn't let Damian walk into such a situation without being prepared. Bruce stood up, careful not to disturb Dick, and headed for the door. Come to think about it, Damian probably wasn't the right person for this kind of conversation anyway. Neither was Jason. Tim? Probably. Alfred? Yes. Or even better –

"Barbara?"

The redhead flinched and looked up at him surprised. She had been completely immersed in her laptop, like so often, that she hadn't realized that Bruce had walked out of Dick's room and almost into her wheelchair.

"Bruce. I need to talk to you." Straightforward as usual, but a charming and cheeky smile on her lips as a greeting. "I heard you talking to Dick and decided to wait."

Barbara had wheeled her wheelchair right beside Dick's room. She began typing on her laptop again, furiously.

Bruce nodded solemnly, trying to work out if it was really already Babs's shift. "I just told him he was going to survive. We kind of forgot to mention that yet." God, he felt terrible about it.

One of Babs's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't avert her eyes from the laptop. "How did he take it?"

"He's confused, but wasn't able to stay awake for much longer, so..."

"Hn, that's good." Apparently Babs had found what she had been searching for in the database of her computer. "Last time I talked to him he didn't even remember that he was in the hospital."

It made Bruce feel a bit better. Maybe there really hadn't been an earlier opportunity to break the news. After all, Dick hadn't been aware of his surroundings or coherent until yesterday morning. Maybe Bruce was exaggerating. Maybe he was trying to compensate his lack of helpful interventions from a few months ago.

Maybe he needed to get a grip on himself and figure out how to deal with this mess properly, for Dick's sake.

Babs had turned around the laptop by now and looked with a serious expression at Bruce. "Jason sent those about an hour ago. I came as soon as I could."

There were pictures on the screen, and Bruce needed a moment to see what Barbara was showing him. Big, neon-coloured letters distracted him, spelling out _'Prince of Gotham struggles to survive!'_, and underneath a picture of Dick, bald, pale, and, most strikingly: unconscious.

_Shit._ Bruce heavily sat down on one of the ugly plastic chairs next to Barbara.

"Jason found them in Blüdhaven. It's the _Blüdhaven's News_, the pulpiest of all pulpy magazines in Blüdhaven. It's only page six and seven, that's why it evaded us for so long." Babs typed a short order an another picture appeared, this time with a modicum of text beside it. Bruce had to squint his eyes to read it.

_'We promised to keep you informed on Gotham's darling, the striking Richard Grayson, adopted son of Bruce Wayne! Here you can see him fighting the cancer that threatens his life.'_

"Is this the only one?" Bruce asked with a calm voice. He was mad. Really, truly mad. Judging by the machinery that surrounded the 'prince of Gotham' and the inhalation tube that breathed for him, the photos had been taken shortly before the transplantation.

"This is the only one we've found so far. Jason is checking the rest of Blüdhaven's boulevard press, and Tim and I will start with Gotham's press today."

Bruce's stomach dropped. This was bad. Someone had taken photos of his sick and helpless son and sold them to a newspaper. Maybe to more. The fact that they hadn't reached Gotham so far was a blessing... or meticulously planned.

Bruce's hands balled to fists. "There won't be any in Gotham. They have been sold to Blüdhaven intentionally, in a city that is related to him but is not on my immediate radar." Dick wasn't really a celebrity in his city; sometimes a few journalists remembered his prestigious upbringing, but most of the time people didn't recognize him as part of the wealthy Wayne family. The photos would have been front page material around here.

"There seems to have been an earlier issue, though," Babs growled unhappily. "It says 'we promised to keep you informed,' so there have to be more pics."

"We need to stop this."

"Agreed. I'm trying to delete them, but you know how the internet works. It may appear time and time again, who knows how often the pictures have been published, saved, and reblogged."

Barbara would be doing her best, Bruce knew. After her incident with the Joker, the boulevard press had had a field day, and the Gordons had been pulled through hell. From the very beginning of Dick's treatment in Gotham, Bruce and Dick had tried to keep the public's curiosity at bay, and Bruce had believed that they had managed to do a fine job... but apparently he was wrong. _God, _someone had taken photos of Dick when he had been only inches away from dying. It was disgusting, it was vicious, but most of all it was very, very scary.

Only a handful of people were possible suspects. Bruce's mind was already going top gear. The medical staff Bruce had paid to keep Dick alive; maybe one of them had been so bold? Or one of them told someone else.

"I'll find them," Bruce hissed, feeling the anger taking over. This was one too many times that Dick had to take up with this kind of Gothamite crap. One step too far. Maybe he couldn't change what Freeze had done, but he could try to control the damage. He had to.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_Next up: Alfred and Dick!_


	2. Chapter 2

**ALFRED**

_-two weeks later-_

"Oh no, you didn't..." Dick groaned and hid his face in his hands. He was trying to act angry, the scolding, responsible older brother, but Alfred saw right through his act, could practically hear the broad grin.

"Woah, _Doctor Zoidberg*_ over there did it." Jason was enjoying this a little bit too much, while Timothy was rolling his eyes theatrically. "The Devil Spawn and I were there by coincidence."

"That's right, you should have heard Jason's whining. He's a real chicken when it comes down to it."

It could have ended in another argument, but Richard reached over and smacked both of them over the head with a book. Alfred generally disapproved, but Dick's grin was too genuine to interrupt and the boy didn't have the strength to hurt them anyway.

It felt good to see him smile again. Alfred had missed it. He saw it as a turning point – Dick was finally on the mend. After those weeks of sleep and dazed, confused awareness, the boy had finally regained some strength. He had tried to hide it from his little brothers, but the road so far had been painful and frustrating. Bruce had gone beyond his ways to help, but there were things that just had to happen.

Lying in bed for weeks had stunted the boy's muscles. Dick had already lost his muscular build thanks to the exhausting therapy, but the last weeks had been filled with relearning the simplest movements. His medication was slowly taken off, including his pain meds. He had to adapt again to real food, and even if it was just fluids, Dick's stomach needed a long time to adjust. When asked how he felt, he usually plastered a smile on his lips and told them he was 'ok'.. but they had all come too far to believe that.

There was nothing to do, though, and Alfred _hated_ it. Hated to watch without being able to help. If asked, he knew that Dick would reassure him that his presence alone was helping, and even though he probably meant it, it wasn't enough for Alfred. This whole fiasco should never have happened to the boy, who was only slowly beginning to realize the shock waves that were following.

But at least, he was laughing now. With his brothers. Alfred looked fondly at the two middle children he had helped to raise and was again pleasantly reminded that there were _Timothy and Jason_, sitting there without trying to strangle one another. No, instead they were seated on two chairs they had stolen from the waiting area and keeping their big brother entertained. Jason was balancing on two chair legs and had hauled his own legs over Dick's blanket. Alfred didn't approve, but the gesture was a gentle one, and Dick didn't seem to mind. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning against the vertical bed head. Alfred knew that Dick was able to sit upright now without getting dizzy or without anything to lean on, but he wasn't taking any chances.

The boys had all come such a long way, and maybe things were finally coming together. Bruce had been shell-shocked by Dick's cancer, more so than the rest of them. Alfred suspected that his former ward had never truly thought of the possibility of losing one of his own to any_ natural causes. _To the butler's enjoyment, the whole thing seemed to have triggered something in Bruce, and the older man was actively trying to engage in conversations with people around him – including, _finally!_, Jason.

Alfred was still amazed. Part of him had believed that they had lost the troubled boy for good, but somehow Dick had managed to coax him back, to give them all a second chance – because this was what was happening, even if only Alfred and probably Dick saw it that way. Alfred had been livid when Bruce told him about offering the Nightwing title to the boy; hadn't he learned _anything_ from five Robins by now?! The audacity of that man! To try to mould Jason into a copy of Richard _again_... but to his surprise, Jason had consented, and that was when he got it – Jason had reassessed them, and finally understood that Bruce's only way of showing affection was to prove that he thought Jason capable of following Dick's path.

Jason's way, though, was complicated and provocative, just like everything he did, everything he _was_. He used guns as Nightwing, visibly proving to Bruce that he was independent and stubborn. It had been the second instance that made Alfred lose hope, but then there had been Timothy. Cool, calm and collected Timothy, who had ended all debate concerning a gun-waving Nightwing with three words: '_Just trust him'_. The discussion deflagrated then; there was nothing Bruce could bring up that would negate the fact that Timothy Jackson Drake had just told them that he trusted Jason Todd, former killer with a tendency to attack and humiliate his replacement. Whatever had happened on the day the two of them had decided to go to Europe together, it had forged a bond between them. They weren't exactly friends, they still managed to piss off one another too easily, and there was still so much past burden unexplained... they weren't friends, but they had taken a huge step to be more like _brothers:_ with hard-wired, serious issues between them, that didn't hinder them from cooperating when they needed to.

"Alfred, you did _what?!_" Dick's voice pulled the old man out of his musing. "_Please_ tell me that that they are lying. You did not feign being a doctor to a poor, innocent woman."

Alfred chuckled in delight. "You never before voiced discomfort about my 'feigning to be a doctor', Master Richard." So they had told him about Amelia now, good.

Dick's eyes went wide, and Jason and Tim laughed. "Oh my God, you really did it!"

Alfred was glad the family was telling Dick as much as they could. With his improving awareness, Dick also began to grasp his situation. It had taken a few days for the boy to work through the fact that he was going to stay _alive_, then the shock had turned into a well-predicted depression. Suddenly it mattered again that he couldn't walk, was still in (minimal, as Alfred kept telling him) danger of relapse, and needed to pay attention to his kidneys, while being only 23. The boys and Alfred tried their best to cheer him up and distract him, but at the same time didn't want to patronize him even more. It was a balancing act, and Alfred was amazed by how well they were doing so far.

"We haven't told you the best thing so far," Timothy spoke up and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "We only managed to convince Amelia with the help of two fabulous actors."

Tim shifted from the chair to the bed next to Dick and held up the display. Alfred had a very good idea what he was showing him, even though the sound that spewed out of the speakers was a terrible amalgam of street noises.

"Sorry for the sound, they were too far away to get their voices recorded..." Tim apologized as if he had read Alfred's mind. "But there'll be a zoom soon and you'll be able to see the one and only Mr. Peter Cox and his son, Thomas, trying to fight for their wife and mother's life."

"You taped it?" Jason groaned, amused. "You're such a stalker, standing in that window and -"

Dick's gasp interrupted him. "Did _Damian _just hug a stranger? Dude that's – Oh my God. Is he _crying_?"

Alfred smiled dutifully at their laughter and Jason and Tim's enthusiastic explanations, but inside he wondered how much of this video's implications Dick was able to grasp. He had seen the tape before, and had been surprised at the young Master's acting, too, but deep down he wondered just how much of it had been a real act. Damian had never before been confronted with sickness and natural death, and just like his father he had tried to detach himself. But Dick was the one person that had managed to get close to Damian, and detaching himself from him had meant detaching himself even more from everyone else. Alfred heavily suspected 'Tom's' crying to be very, very real.

Usually, Alfred didn't know what to think about Damian's similarity to his father. As loyal and loving as he was towards his former ward, Bruce's emotional distance had always been a constant source of frustration for the butler, and to see Damian taking the same path was scary and worrisome. Right now, though, Damian and Bruce had both learned something and were beginning to confront their family members in a different way. For a young boy like Damian, this could open up a completely new life.

While Dick had been unconscious or too weak to stay awake for more than a few moments, Damian had a hard time expressing his complicated emotions. In his mind, showing emotions still equalled weakness, and only around Dick was it tolerated.. so what to do with emotions about his elder brother, who couldn't receive them? Bruce had been a light source of comfort; the two of them had begun to talk to each other about things other than just patrol and crime fighting. It was good to see. Still, the biggest help had been Timothy, who had finally developed the nerves to counter Damian's insults and outbursts with angelic patience. Damian still exploded at him, but instead of spewing back insults, Tim let the younger boy work out his frustration and then ignored what had happened completely.

Alfred smiled when he focused his attention to the youngest bird in the room. Tim had taken up the role of a big brother to Damian and a responsible little brother to Jason. He had seen the void Dick had left and stepped up to the role, thus helping Bruce with keeping the family in check and taking the pressure off Dick's shoulders to get better as soon as possible. To Alfred, it seemed as if Tim had grown up in the last three months, finally finding his role in the familial hierarchy. Alfred knew that Dick was bursting with pride.

Speaking of Dick, the eldest bird was yawning pathetically and thus stopped the light banter between his brothers. Alfred glanced at the watch and wondered where Bruce and Damian were; they wanted to meet to have a quick update about those gruesome photos Jason and Barbara had discovered.

"Are you tired?" Tim asked worriedly, immediately sliding back into his chair to give Dick more space on the bed.

"Dickiebird is always tired, Zoidberg."

"Well, you guys _are_ exhausting..." Dick was stretching his legs and snuggled deeper into the blankets, lazily smiling at the other two. "So what else is there to know, apart from stolen bone marrow, fake doctor licences and a crying Damian?"

Tim and Jason answered dutifully, but were more careful now. Dick was getting tired so quickly, and he still needed _a_ _lot _of sleep. Leslie had taken it upon herself to warn them about underestimating the extent of bodily exhaustion Dick still suffered from. Every muscle stretch was work for him right now, and his body held no energy reserves whatsoever.

Luckily, there was a light knock on the door about ten minutes later. A shock of spiky hair appeared in the doorway, looking sullen and serious at the scene in front of him.

"Father is here now. He wishes to talk to you." There were no greetings as usual when Damian addressed them, but his expression softened the tiniest bit when he focused on Richard, who was waving at him weakly.

"Ah, there is the new prodigy," Jason sneered. "Why don't you give us a sample of your talents?"

"You need to be a lot more specific than that, Todd," was Damian's predictable answer, but his brows furrowed when he saw Tim's cell phone that still lay on Dick's bed. He stepped closer to see the video they had paused at a certain moment when 'Thomas' had been crying.

Alfred thought about stopping the obviously coming disaster, but was admittedly curious about how the proud little ex- assassin would react. Dick chuckled when Damian strode into the room haughtily, and Jason pulled his legs from the bed and stopped rocking on his chair, preparing himself in case of a fight.

When Damian was close enough to recognize his own face and his mouth opened in an audible intake of breath that would surely rain down on them in the form of insults a few seconds later, Timothy grabbed the phone grinningly and stood up quickly.

"Well, I guess we shouldn't keep Bruce waiting..."

"_Drake you stupid moron what were you thinking this is unacceptable I won't let you..._"

"...you know how he gets, he's so impatient..."

"_You are a sorry excuse for a Wayne and Father should have never adop-_"

"Stop."

It had been funny a second ago, Dick had been chuckling, but now the sheer seriousness in his voice made all the other occupants in the room freeze. Damian and Timothy shut up immediately, and Alfred's awareness turned exclusively on the patient on the bed.

"Dick, are you alright?"

"Damian, come closer."

Dick was sitting completely upright now, staring ahead at Damian with a shell-shocked expression. Whatever was going on, it was important and apparently scary for the eldest brother. Damian looked worried and uncomfortable as he stepped closer to the bed.

"Grayson, I apologize if we were too loud."

"Stop. Stay right there... Oh, holy shit..."

Damian was now standing right next to Tim, and was obviously at a loss. They all were. Dick's gaze was now switching between Tim and Damian, and Alfred felt how Jason looked at him confusedly. He met the boy's eyes and shrugged inconspicuously.

"You've_ grown_," Dick said finally, and Alfred understood what was going on. He closed his eyes in denial; oh no, this wasn't good, this shouldn't be happening for at least one more week...

"Dickie, you're scaring the shit out of us." Jason's way of asking 'what's wrong'.

"Damian. He _grew_," Dick repeated, and this time his voice was hollow and defeated by what he knew would come next. "I never saw you two standing next to each other..."

Timothy and Damian were looking at Alfred now for help, the elder of the two probably knowing what Dick had just grasped.

"Richard..." Alfred spoke up and reached over to touch one of his sick grandchild's hands. Dick pulled them away and tore his gaze away from Damian, only to look around in the room exasperated.

"How long was I out?" he asked, looking more scared with each silent second.

"Well," Jason spoke up slowly, carefully, "that depends. What's the last thing you remember?"

Dick looked at him vulnerably, and then furrowed his brow. Alfred knew that Dick still had problems recalling certain instances, and remembering was strenuous. It was the reason why they had wanted to let him gain strength first.

"I think... the bathroom? At the manor?" Alfred closed his eyes again when he remembered that one incident, too. He had hoped against all reason that Dick wouldn't remember how the old butler had failed him the one moment he needed him. "I think I … I vomited blood...?"

"We found you passed out on the tiles," Alfred picked up the trail, glancing shortly at a paling Timothy and stood up to sit next to Dick on the bed. Jason and the others got the hint and left, _fled,_ to give the two of them a moment of privacy. It didn't help to soothe Dick's fear, though. "That was mid- December. It's March now, Dick."

* * *

_-the next day-_

Bruce looked out of the window, his newspaper forgotten in his lap. For anyone who didn't know the billionaire as well as Alfred did, he appeared to be his usual, brooding self... but Alfred knew immediately what was going on.

"Did anything happen while you visited Dick today?" he asked while he poured the tea. Bruce startled and turned towards him, smiling slightly when he realized it was only Alfred.

Without the boys around, Bruce and Alfred's dynamics were different. No need for hyper-vigilance or 'Master Bruce's. The two men knew each other too well by now to retreat into careful courtesies or distrust. It was a bond they shared exclusively – even though they both trusted other people unconditionally, the years had forged a special relationship between them.

"Nothing happened, but I keep worrying about him," Bruce admitted therefore with a sigh, not minding to express emotions in front of his old friend. Alfred knew that his own expression fell immediately to match Bruce's. He worried, too. Constantly.

"He's depressed. It was too early to tell him." Alfred remembered the conversation yesterday painfully well; Richard's disbelieve, anger, helplessness. Although he kept smiling and assured them that he was fine, the revelation had hit Dick hard. His fever had spiked up only a few hours later, and though it didn't rise to dangerous temperatures, it still kept a steady, paralyzing grip on the boy that matched perfectly with his mood.

"He would have to deal with it sooner or later," Bruce soothed. "Barbara has a lead on the photos, but it's messy and she and Jason will have to work solely on that if we want to get them down as soon as possible."

Ah, this was the reason for Bruce's new worries, then. There was a business conference coming up in California he had to attend for at least a week, and Jason and Barbara were busy too. It also meant that Timothy and Damian were entrusted with patrolling Gotham and would have to rest during the days to stay capable of doing so. It was ill timing with Dick bordering on depression right now, since Alfred too would be spread too thin during those days to keep him company over a longer period of time.

"I'm sure Miss Barbara and I will manage to cheer him up while you're gone," the butler said, eyeing his former ward carefully. "Though I dare say that there are other solutions."

Bruce tried hard not to roll his eyes. "That again?"

Alfred never understood Bruce's inability to see the comfort company gave. He had been more than elated when Dick had developed into the complete opposite. "You know he misses his friends. A few new faces would do him good."

* * *

**DICK**

_-a few days later-_

Dick wasn't even fully awake when he realized that his fever had gone down again. His head swam less, and consciousness seemed easier to gain, faster to grasp. He slowly opened his eyes and stifled a yawn, contemplating at the same time that he had become too familiar with his body's ailments.

He was alone in the room, he noticed immediately, which was quite unusual. The door to his room was left ajar, as if someone had pulled the door shut but let go of the handle too quickly to really close it. A quick look at the clock told him it was early afternoon, and he had company around that time as a rule.

A scrap of memory appeared in front of his inner eye: Bruce had told him he needed to attend to some business conference and Tim and Damian were patrolling Gotham during his absence... That sounded like a reasonable explanation for the empty room, but Dick needed a few more minutes and a lot more mental effort to file that memory scrap into a time frame. Yes, it hadn't been that long ago; he was sure of it now, even though Dick was unable to remember if he had last spoken to Bruce yesterday, the day before yesterday or last week.

He had given up being angry about his lacking sense of time and had settled for frustration instead. Things didn't really make sense to Dick, and the fever episodes and sudden flashbacks weren't helping the least. He had no control over them, and they left him confused and weary.

Leslie had assured him that his inability to remember was normal, that his memory and physical control was coming back soon, and though Dick trusted her... man, he was missing_more than two months_!? Suddenly the singing birds in front of his window made sense – or would, if he had noticed that it was _them_ that confused him earlier. Now it made sense that his visitors didn't have to cast off layers of clothes, scarves and caps. He had been so confused about these things, even though he never had been able to put his finger on them and they all had told him not to worry about it.

Alfred had said that he had woken up four weeks ago, and had been able to have a conversation for about three. Dick clung to that number desperately, but at the same time knew that the digits didn't mean anything to him – time was nothing but a slippery, abstract construct when you couldn't even manage to follow the rhythm of day and night...

Dick sighed and shook his head. Damn, he needed to get a grip on himself. Moping around didn't help, and the Dick Grayson he remembered had been a friend of action. The plan was easy: get a grip; to get a grip he had to get out of this hospital that was driving him mad, and to get out of here he had to get better. Easy, no problem. Dick was completely determined to ignore that 'getting better' was more complicated than it sounded, and if he ignored _that_ one, things _had_ to work out.

Of course, Dick knew that ignoring his own condition was dangerously similar to how he had ignored his previous condition, which had almost cost his life. But if he didn't ignore it, he would slip into the depression he knew was looming around each corner. What a dilemma. The phrase 'you survived' still sounded profoundly wrong to him, he was unprepared and too vulnerable to deal with it, but it wasn't like Dick could really concentrate on that right now. 'Cause if he did, he would have to deal with the fact that he was only skin and bones, that there were tubes and needles coming out of his chest and stomach and who knew where else that sometimes ended in disgusting bags the nurses had to empty regularly because that he couldn't walk to the bathroom without help and had needed _two weeks_ just to relearn just how to fucking _stand upright_ without getting dizzy-

_Stop. _

Dick took a deep breath. The bad feeling was pooling in his stomach again, and Dick kept repeating that he just had to get better and then everything would fall into line on its own. He just had to follow his plan; _easy. _

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Suddenly he understood why his family insisted on having someone there with him when he woke up, someone who began chatting immediately and kept his mind away from the urinary bag that was cleverly hidden next to his bed.

Dick felt like crying. Company would be really good now.

As if on clue, Dick suddenly heard steps approaching his room. Voices, too. Doctors? Nurses? Wasn't there a distinctly British accent?

The steps stopped suddenly and Dick thought disappointedly that one of his fellow patients in the rooms next to him got some visitors, but then he realized that the voices were still close, just whispering.

Curious, he slowly propped himself up on his elbows and manoeuvred himself step by step into a sitting position. Dick didn't dare to get up on his own (meeting with the hard hospital floor once was enough, thank you), but he managed to shift and crane his neck just so that he saw through the door's cleft.

A pair of large, bright eyes suddenly appeared behind the door, widening when they met with his, and then Dick's flirt with depression was gone so suddenly that it left him light-headed. The door was thrown open and Lian Harper burst into the room, screaming "UNCLE DIIIICK!" and threw herself onto his bed.

She jumped onto his lap with so much energy that it knocked the air out of his lungs, and then had already wrapped her arms around his chest. Dick laughed and hugged her back. Fiercely.

"Woah, Princess," Roy strolled into the room and smiled apologetically. "What did I tell you about behaviour in hospitals?"

"But I didn't ask Uncle Dick if he wore diapers?!"

Dick snorted and Roy blushed. "The _other_ thing, sweetheart. They need to take it _easy_."

He grabbed Lian under the arms and lifted her onto her feet again, enabling Dick to breathe again. Only a second later Lian had jumped back onto the bed next to Dick and had flung her arms around him again. Roy rolled his eyes and sighed, then simply leaned down and gave Dick a quick hug himself.

"How are you, Short Pants?"

"Better than the last time we met, I guess."

"Duude, you have no idea." Roy was aiming for cheery, but to Dick the bright smile resembled a pained grimace. He realized with a start that he actually had no idea when Roy had seen him last time – _two months,_ holy shit...

"Daddy said you were really sick..." The small arms around him tightened, and Lian's voice turned downright heart-breaking. "He didn't allow me to visit you."

Dick patted her hair lovingly and exchanged a knowing glance with his old friend. A cough from the door drew his attention back to Alfred, who was leaning in the doorframe and supervised the whole scenery with an affectionate smile. He silently motioned for Lian and then to the corridor.

"Hey Alfred," Dick called therefore. "Did you already meet Princess Lian?"

"I don't think I've had the honor so far." Alfred stepped closer and bowed deep to Lian, who was giggling madly. "A princess definitely has the privilege of eating chocolate cake at the hospital cafeteria at this time of day."

Lian's eyes widened when she leaned closer to Dick. "But I'm no real princess, Daddy only calls me that sometimes!"

"Honey, Alfred is British." Dick untangled her arms and pushed her onto her feet gently, "I'm sure he recognizes Princesses when he sees them."

"Most certainly so, your majesty. Would you do an old man the honor and let him guide you to the nearest chocolate cake?"

When they disappeared out of the room, Dick turned to Roy. "So, when exactly was the last time we met? My memory is really shitty right now."

Roy's fake grin wavered slightly, and he made a strange movement with his hand as if waving the question away. It was so un-Roy that is was funny. "That doesn't matter, let's talk about something else! Did you see any hot nurses around here?"

"You're scary when you're not brutally honest," Dick observed with a quiet laugh and settled back into his cushions.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Roy's fake smile vanished and he looked at Dick sulkily.

"Please tell me you're not going to act like nothing's wrong."

"If you insist. Dick, you look like shit."

Dick chuckled. "Better."

"And your hair is funny."

"Okay, that's enough."

"No, seriously. Why the hell is it curly?"

"Shut up, Roy."

"Uhh, sore topic?"

"God, you're annoying."

Instead of a witty comeback, Dick found himself engulfed in strong embrace again. He sighed, touched. Like father, like daughter. And Roy wondered where Lian's behaviour came from...

"We thought you were going to die," his old friend mumbled into his (now curly, _goddamnit,_) hair.

"Yeah, me too." Dick patted Roy's back weakly.

"Bats wouldn't tell us shit. If it weren't for Timmy, we wouldn't know _anything_."

Tim? Dick smiled proudly. He hadn't fully grasped the extent of Timmy's involvement in his recovery yet, but he was sure the younger boy had done brilliantly. Finally he lived up to the full potential Dick had always seen in him.

Roy pulled back and started to list the names of the people that had delivered get-well wishes. Sadly, the league was preoccupied with some deep space mission, and the remaining heroes were busy with double shifts for the missing ones. Wally, unfortunately, was somewhere on a spaceship near Oa.

"He'll have a fit when I tell him we were allowed to visit you at last."

"I guess that was Alfred's decision?"

Roy suddenly got up and started to shift through the cupboards with Dick's personal stuff.

"Yeah, he told me you're depressed. Gave me a lecture of dos and don'ts before I could even step close to your room." He pulled out Dick's morning robe, and Dick felt his stomach drop. "You'll be glad to hear that I decided to ignore all the don'ts and reinterpret the dos."

"What are you doing?"

"We need to get you out of this room." Roy grabbed the blanket and flipped it away. Dick crossed his arms over his chest to brace himself for the cold air and to signal defiance.

"That's not a good idea," he said.

The red head's brow furrowed. "Alfred said you could walk."

"A few steps. With my physiotherapist."

But the idea of getting out was intriguing, Dick had to admit, and soon was more compelling than listening to his doctor's orders. The room was beginning to cave in on him, and even the fever and sickness that had distracted him earlier couldn't change that anymore. Roy insisted on walking down the floor to the visitor's area where he had hid two bottles of beer before meeting up with Alfred, and the thought of tasting something else other than water and dissolving pills did it for Dick.

So two minutes later, Dick was standing next to his bed, leaning heavily on his IV pole and regretting ever waking up again. The world was spinning, Dick's stomach churned, and it was really, really cold. He dimly noticed how Roy draped the morning robe across his shoulders, and after a few seconds, the room slowed down.

"Alright, let's go!" Roy piped way too happy and gave Dick a push that made his IV-pole roll into the wrong direction. He hesitated a moment, thinking about _that bag_ that was still attached to the bed frame, but realized that Roy must have used the moments of dizziness to cleverly hook it onto his waistband and had hidden it with the morning robe.

Wow, embarrassing.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dick mumbled, feeling the blush cover his cheeks. He couldn't bring himself to look at Roy, who had watched each of his movements like a hawk.

"Are you kidding me? Exercise is good for you, you finally have some colour on your face!" Roy linked his arm with Dick's and started to walk, pulling Dick with him. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Dick groaned as he tried to keep up without wondering how the colours of the room managed to swirl like they did. "Since when?"

"Oh, don't bother, you won't recall it." Roy patted his back good-naturedly. "You told me you have issues with your memory, don't you remember?"

..._idiot._

Dick grinned and finally found his pace. Admittedly, walking down the halls wasn't as bad as he had dreaded it to be; Roy was chattering happily, and the usual foreboding about the next physio session was missing. He was still relieved when they reached the visitor room of the station. Roy guided him to a table and two chairs next to a window, and Dick found the room to be nice and bright, much more comfortable than his own room further down the hall.

Roy was rummaging behind him, pulling the books out of the shelf so he could get to the two bottles. For the first time Dick noticed the wheelchair in the corner that looked suspiciously close to the one Bruce had bought so he wouldn't have to borrow one from the hospital. Maybe Roy wasn't such an idiot, after all.

"So, how are you?" Roy placed one of the bottles in front of Dick and removed the bottle top.

"Fine, thanks."

They clinked their bottles and took a sip. It tasted bitter and exciting, and Dick felt like a teenager who had just taken his first sip of Daddy's super expensive whiskey to impress some girl. He couldn't help but check if a nurse was coming their way.

"Okay, and how are you _really_?"

Trust his most idiotic, egocentric and prickly buddy to see right through him. Dick averted his gaze to the bottle in his hands, watching how he unconsciously peeled the adhesion label off the glass.

How he felt? Depressed, Alfred said. Dick was inclined to answer with that, but truth be told, he felt like 'depressed' was too much of an advanced state of mind. He doubted he could bring up the energy to feel depressed, or the mental capacities. He felt confused, yes, but as of yet Dick didn't even know _what exactly_ was confusing him, he was just... missing out on things. He was angry about being so weak. He was weak because he was lacking energy. He was lacking energy because he spent it being angry.

But there was no true recipient to his anger, so it didn't make sense. He was confused.

"I don't know," he whispered therefore, never raising his gaze. "I can't make sense out of it."

Roy was quiet for a long time, waiting for Dick to elaborate, but Dick couldn't, because, well... he couldn't make sense out of it.

"You need to give me more than that," the redhead said finally, sighing, serious. "I see that you're behaving different, but I can't analyse it, yet."

"Different?" Dick peeled off a large piece of paper and tore the word 'nonalcoholic' apart. Man, Roy was a clever bastard.

"Dick. Both of us have been in the hospital often enough. We visited each other often enough. You were never embarrassed about urinary catheters or failing to walk a few steps."

Dick winced. Suddenly, he wanted to get back to bed. To pull the blanket over his head and ignore the outside world. "This time it's different."

"How?"

"It feels so.. total." Dick didn't know if it made sense what he was saying, but it felt right. "When I got hurt earlier, I couldn't wait to start training again, to get out of the hospital again, but now? I don't want to get up, or meet with my physiotherapist, or go back home. It feels … _wrong. _I felt like this when I got chemo."

The last sentence was rushed, and Dick heard Roy sucking in air.

"Ah, I think I get it. You once told us that getting chemo felt like defeat."

Dick nodded. He dimly remembered that conversation. Wally had been there too, and had left the room after that. Defeated, yes. He had seen himself in the mirror last week, when his physiotherapist had allowed him to go to the bathroom alone. Total defeat.

"That's bullshit, Short Pants," Roy interrupted, apparently reading his mind. "People who are defeated by cancer _die_. You're very alive."

Dick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. That still was a strange thought. "I think that part hasn't gotten through to me yet."

Roy sighed and took a deep sip of his bottle. "To be fair, _we_ needed a while to get it."

"I'm still checking if I get chemo every time I wake up," Dick confessed suddenly. "The last thing I remember is relapsing, and then suddenly I'm in permanent remission and everything is alright?"

It wasn't the complete truth; relapsing and falling 'asleep' in the manor's bathroom wasn't the last thing he remembered. It was the last thing he could assign timing to. He remembered that someone had been yelling the word 'Dad' in panic. He remembered huge machines next to his bed. Bruce, who begged him to talk with him. Scraps of memories that he assigned to the missing months, but to be honest they could have originated everywhere (or was it every_when_?). His mind hadn't done so great in the weeks before his relapse, and who knew. Jason had said he had almost died, maybe he had seen flashbacks.

Dick tried to remember if he saw a bright light, but instead of white he saw brown. At some point, he must have laid his head on his crossed arms on the wooden table. He blinked two times and saw Roy crouching next to him, looking worried.

Wow, when had that happened?

His mind was full of holes.

"Dick, listen," Roy interrupted him, deadly serious. He even looked a little bit pissed, but Dick didn't think it was directed at him. "There's one thing you never understood. You're _human._"

"Very sharp, Roy."_ What the hell...?_

"You always tried to ignore it. You and all the other bats. Always pushing harder than everyone else, always trying to be better, faster, stronger. You're _human,_ and sometimes you need to take your time. That's why Alfred called me, because he's the only sane one in your family."

"He called you to tell me I'm human?" An amusing thought, Dick had to smile a little bit. Yes, one of Alfred's recovery-related catch phrases had always been 'take your time', but what did Roy mean with bringing that up?

"You haven't seen anyone outside the family since you woke up, right?" Roy asked, and Dick nodded. Roy's expression darkened further. "So while you should be resting, _dealing_, your little brothers and your trainer from hell are sitting around you and waiting for you to get up and do somersaults."

That provoked a reaction, and Dick was surprised about it. "_Of course_ they want me to get better!"

"They are just as brainwashed as you are. Dick, you had cancer!"

Roy was getting loud now, and that and Dick's inability to comprehend what he was getting at was making Dick angry. "Don't you think I noticed?!"

"Cancer, Dick! That's not like a broken bone, or a stab wound!"

"I know!"

"You don't just recover from that and go back to back flips!"

"_I know!_"

"_Then stop trying to!_" Roy had grabbed Dick's shoulders now and grinned triumphantly. Shit, Dick realized he had played right into his trap. "Stop putting yourself under pressure! Things will come back when you're ready, not when you're beating yourself up because you can't remember!"

They stared at each other for a moment, before Dick looked away and tried to keep the small smile away that was tugging at his lips. The situation was new, but familiar – Dick and Roy were used to being the only humans, used to trying to accomplish things above their possibilities, just to prove that they could. "You didn't need to scream like that."

"Easiest way to get things through that thick, curly-haired head of yours."

"Oh, shut up."

"Come on, let's go back," Roy decided and went to fetch the wheelchair. Dick was glad for that; he didn't feel like walking back, even if it was only a short distance. "I still need to give you Lian's get-well-Teddy."

"Lian's what?"

Roy helped Dick to get into the chair, making Dick realized how exhausted he was.

"Her get-well-Teddy. When I tried to tell her that you were... that you weren't getting better, Lian insisted on giving you her Teddy. But you got chemo and nothing antiseptic was allowed in your room."

Dick hummed an answer. He had seen children who got chemo, who clutched to welded stuffed animals. That was probably the saddest sight he ever saw. Wow, he really must have come close to death's doorstep, he still hadn't completely worked through that.

Roy was right; before he could work through being alive and well again, he needed to work through almost dying. There was no point in rushing.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_*Doctor Zoidberg is a fictional (and most awesome) character from the show Futurama. He's an alien doctor who works on earth but has no idea about human anatomy or physiology, and I don't think he's even able to hold a scalpel? Obviously, Jason thought that's a legit comparison to Tim's surgical episodes ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Timothy**

_-exactly thirteen days later-_

When the phone rang in the middle of the night, every occupant of every bed in Wayne Manor was up and dashing towards the nearest phone before it could ring for the third time.

Tim had thrown his door open and ran to where Bruce was already standing, accepting grudgingly that he hadn't just dreamed. Bruce and Alfred had installed a special ring tone if Leslie or the hospital called, and Tim was pretty sure that every member of the household had had his fair share of nightmares about it over the past months. Tim had found himself standing in the threshold of his room various times in the dark, blinking and listening to the silence.

He was always thankful when realized that he only dreamed, but now, as he jogged towards Bruce and heard Alfred coming up behind him, Damian coming from the other direction, every hope about bad but realistic dreams were getting ridiculous.

Something was wrong with Dick.

There was only one reason why the phone was ringing in the middle of the night with that ring tone.

After weeks of silent nights and steady recovery, things had taken a turn for the worse recently. Dick had developed a fever, low at first, but steadily rising. His immune system was still not working properly and overreacted at every opportunity, so fevers weren't rare but scarcely rose to dangerous temperatures. Yesterday, though, Leslie had looked critically at the thermometer and expressed worry. Obviously, she had been right.

"Yes?" Bruce growled into the receiver without greeting, making Tim wince. "Leslie?"

Oh God, something was _really _wrong; Leslie's shift should have ended hours ago. Tim could feel his intestines freezing over. Bruce's face was blanching as he listened, making Tim's worst fear palpable – Bruce didn't just pale. Something bad must be going on; the worst thing Timothy could think of was the innocent looking but utterly terrible word _relapse_.

Bruce disconnected with a grunt and immediately turned to rush back to his room. "We need to get to Dick," he gritted out between clenched teeth, "_quick_."

"What happened?!" Tim asked, rooted to the spot.

Bruce turned to him with a pained expression. "I don't know. Leslie just ordered all of us to the intensive care unit."

Thanks to years of vigilantism and trained movements, the four of them were dressed and rushed into the car in only a few minutes. Tim tried to ignore how badly his hands shook and concentrated on Alfred instead, who steered the car swiftly but calmly. Jeez, the composure of this man.

Damian was white like a ghost and stared out of the car window, probably not seeing any of the scenery outside, while Bruce kept staring at the mobile phone in his hands as if hypnotizing it not to ring.

The next moment, Alfred stopped the car right in front of the hospital. Tim blinked up at the building, wondering how they could possibly be here already. He must have zoned out, but when he tried to reconstruct his thoughts, he came up blank.

Bruce pushed him forward, suddenly, and Tim shook the confusion away and followed the others through the hospital hallways. They knew the way by heart by now; cancer unit, radiation unit, the way to the floor closed for maintenance that had served as Dick's secret treatment room for so long, isolation unit, ICU. The last three letters were looming in front of him ominously, and with sweaty hands and a pounding heart, Tim walked through the door.

It was in the middle of the night, so the one room filled with movement wasn't hard to find. The green light that indicated the presence of a nurse was buzzing, and various voices, Leslie's among them, were audible through the closed door.

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat that developed when he thought about the word 'relapse' and reached for the door handle, but then hurrying steps turned his attention towards an approaching nurse.

She was making her way to the same room with swift steps, eyeing the small crowd in front of the door warily.

"You're here for Richard Grayson?" She asked curtly, and Bruce affirmed her suspicion.

The nurse nodded, told them to wait for a second longer, and then pulled out a white paper mask she wrapped over her mouth and nose, and disappeared inside the room.

Tim's insides froze over instantly.

An infection mask.

Just like during Dick's early remission, when his immune system had been brought down by the chemo and every germ could kill him. When the fever was raging through his body because every infection could spread freely and his immune system wasn't working at all.

Dick had been feverish, his temperature rising. His immune system was spewing out leukocytes uncontrollably again, even though he was still under heavy immunosuppressive drugs to prevent just that.

_Relapse._

The minuscule possibility had come true; some cancerous cells had survived in a place where chemotherapy and radiation hadn't had optimal access to, maybe the spinal canal, and triggered a new outbreak.

_Oh God _and they couldn't just get back to Amelia and ask for her marrow, and what were the chances of Dick surviving another round of this torture?

A touch made Tim emerge from his dark thoughts with a jolt – the door had opened again and _Damian_ had grabbed his hand. Tim stared down at their hands dumbstruck, but before he could choose how to react, Leslie had closed the door again and turned towards them, ripping her mask away from her face.

Subconsciously, they all had taken a few steps back, even Bruce, so Leslie had to walk up to them while she scrunched up the mask in her hands. Tim's shell-shocked mind only slowly registered the look on her face, which was one of complete and utter wrath.

_Wrath?_

Tim had barely time to think about how that really wasn't an adequate reaction to a relapse, when Leslie exploded in front of them.

"What the hell were you idiots thinking!?" she bellowed, obviously not caring that the rest of the intensive care unit was asleep. "What part of 'loss of acquired immunity' didn't you get?!"

Tim was still too confused to act, but Bruce had opened his mouth to interfere, only to be interrupted by a furious Leslie, who pushed a … plastic back full of brown hair into his face? _What?_

"Who brought this?!" she hissed, then turned to Damian and threw the bag into his arms. "Is this yours?!"

It was teddy bear in a welded plastic bag, Tim realized all of sudden. Damian too, for he turned a deep shade of red and dropped the stuffed animal with a fervent shake of his head.

"I believe that is Miss Lian's Get-well-Teddy," Alfred spoke up suddenly, brow furrowed. "Miss Leslie, what is the meaning of this?"

Tim recognized the poor little fellow that had dutifully held vigil at Dick's bedside since Roy and his daughter had visited. Dick had explained that Lian believed her teddy to have magic powers and therefore gave it to sick people... and then he got what was going on.

The relief was almost as big as their stupidity.

"Whoever this belongs to," Leslie was fuming now, "it had been with someone with chicken pox recently."

He was going to kill Harper, right after Tim found a way to kick himself in the butt for not thinking about it. Of course Lian had given the teddy to other people she knew, and why not to a kid with chicken pox? Dick's new immune system was as strong as a newborn's, which meant that he had to get vaccinated for illnesses like polio or hepatitis again and had no antibodies for childhood diseases like measles any more.

"_Chicken pox?_" Bruce hissed suddenly, targeting Leslie. "You scared the hell out of us just because of _chicken pox?!_"

Leslie all but exploded in his face, and _woah_, suddenly Tim understood why Dick never brought even one word of displeasure with his treatment regime over his lips when she was present. There weren't many people that managed to set the Batman straight, and only Alfred and Leslie could do so without even blinking.

"Yes, just chicken pox, Bruce!" she yelled. "Do you have any idea what kind of catastrophe that is for this hospital?! We can't have nurses walking around spreading VZV*, you big dork!"

Damian and Tim had both taken a few more steps back and looked at each other with expressions that might have been funny if the situation wasn't so scary. They should be either relieved that Dick hadn't relapsed or worry about the possible complications of the chicken pox, but right now they were too distracted by the view of Bruce I'm-Batman Wayne being chewed out by a woman two heads shorter. Tim was pretty sure that Leslie had a lot more disgracing expressions up her sleeve than 'dork', and Bruce didn't seem to know how to stop her any time soon.

Thank God for Alfred. He stepped up to save his former ward and put a calming, soothing hand on Leslie's shoulder. Disgruntled, she glared one last time at the shell-shocked Bruce and then turned her attention to the butler exclusively.

"Miss Leslie, please. We can assure you that none of us wished for this to happen." – Tim and Damian both nodded frantically when Alfred shot them a glare – "But I fear I don't understand why you are so agitated. Chicken pox isn't such a dangerous disease, is it?"

Leslie sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Usually it's not. But in adults it can become dangerous, with other diseases following the original infection, and Dick isn't strong enough to fight them."

"What other diseases?" Bruce engaged into the conversation again, now clearly worried but composed again. "How _is _he?"

"Pneumonia, encephalitis, hepatitis,... the chances aren't high, but I'd rather not risk it. He's as well as can be expected right now, the fever knocked him out a few hours ago."

No, they really shouldn't risk it. Dick couldn't even stay awake when he had a fever. Tim remembered his own chicken pox episode – he had been in his early teens then, which was already late for a childhood disease. To him it hadn't been more than an itchy nuisance, but he remembered his parents and private doctors worrying over follow-up infections. Nothing had happened, but then again he hadn't had cancer, chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplantation on his plate. Dick really didn't need another illness on his, especially not one that could turn out dangerous.

"But it's unlikely to happen, right?" Alfred asked, worry radiating off him in waves.

"We discovered it early, so we are prepared. Under surveillance we should be able to fend off everything..." Leslie's words were reassuring, but she wasn't happy, something else was bothering her. Tim let go of a breath he had been holding nonetheless and was sure that every other member of the family was doing the same.

"So there is no actual problem?"

Leslie turned to Bruce again. "That's _exactly_ the problem. We can't have steady surveillance here. The virus spreads so easily, and we can't have nurses walking around with it. We have newborns and immunosuppressive patients here, kids that visit,.. it's too dangerous."

"Isn't that what the isolation unit is for?"

"I.U. is undermanned right now. Also, I don't think you want him to wake up in the isolation unit _again_..."

Tim shuddered involuntarily. He really didn't want Dick to come to, surrounded by white masks and gloves again, with visitors only allowed to walk through the glass door system fully dressed in white hygienic suits. If Tim had already associated white masks with relapse, Dick would probably have a heart attack.

"What are you saying, Leslie? I can pay for staff."

"Bruce, we can't risk a VZV expansion, and it's so easily spread. I don't want to put him into isolation again, not when he's just starting to recover from the trauma."

"You want us to take him home, Miss Leslie."

"Yes. You are more than competent to look after him," Leslie smiled at Alfred sadly. "We can hospitalize him at the first sign of complication, or I could check up on him daily. I think that's the best solution."

Bruce wasn't convinced. "You just told us about the complication and now you want him out of steady surveillance?"

"We keep him here if you insist, of course. But I have to consider the well-being of my other patients, too."

"We can have him in an isolated section of the hospital, with staff I'll hire especially to work with him."

"That's not so much different from taking him home," Tim thought out loud, making the adults turn towards him. "We have all the equipment we need at home, and I think the change of scenery would do him good."

Dick was going crazy with being locked up in a room. Sure, he wasn't as eager for physiotherapy or exerting himself as he used to be after injury, but Tim really thought that getting back home was a major psychological help on his big brother's road to recovery. Dick had been in hospital now for more than three months straight, and an outpatient for even longer. It was time to get him away.

"We planned to take him back in one or two weeks anyway," Alfred argued.

"If things were going according to plan!" Bruce growled, but sighed afterwards. "Are we really ready for this? Alfred, you know what we had _planned_ for next week."

Right. Bruce had to go to some business conference in California again. He had tried to get out of it until Barbara had found a trace that linked the photos of Dick that kept appearing in the _Blüdhaven's News_ to a small town in California, not far from where the conference was going to be.

They needed to stop those photos before they became front page news and made their way to Gotham. Tim felt nauseous when he thought about the reaction of Gotham's boulevard media, which had just recently stopped trying to pester more information about Dick's recovery out of them. Every hint Babs and Jason managed to get about the photographer came up empty, while the new photos wound their ways through the internet, impossible to track down. The California link was the best shot they had had in a long while.

"Have you had chicken pox before, Damian?" Bruce asked suddenly, turning their attention to the youngest member of the family who had been completely quiet for the whole conversation.

Damian didn't know much about medicine or illnesses thanks to his family's upbringing. The al Ghuls didn't have to deal with sickness or even death, they could just use a Lazarus Pit. The whole situation must be extremely scary for the boy, who slowly shook his head now.

Tim groaned inwardly and Alfred and Bruce exchanged a meaningful glance. With Bruce gone, Robin and Red Robin would have to patrol Gotham again. Damian couldn't get sick, too, therefore. He would have to stay away from Dick until he wasn't contagious any more, and with Tim needing to sleep for most of the day to be fit for the nights, the brunt of looking after Dick would fall on Alfred.

And Alfred had made it absolutely clear that he wouldn't risk Dick's wellbeing ever again. Alfred had taken the blame on himself after they had found Dick, unconscious and bleeding, on the bathroom floor months ago. He could have died back then, bleeding out or asphyxiating from the blood he was puking, all because they had been too busy to look after him properly. They had come to realize that they had made a collective mistake quickly, but Alfred had taken it the hardest – he had been there when it happened, in the Batcave, just two floors away from Dick's room.

"Master Jason has had chicken pox," Alfred remembered with an amused smile. "I've never heard a child his age swear like that."

"Do you think he'll come to the Manor?"

Bruce had a point; even though Jason was beginning to get along with Bruce too, visiting the Manor would probably still be a no go. Too many memories, too many old wounds. But then again, Tim was pretty sure that Jason would try to help Dick – he had surprised them all before, after all.

"I'll call him," he said therefore and rummaged his pockets for his mobile phone.

"I'll make the arrangements," Leslie hurried away without a further word.

Damian was staring at them, uncomprehending. Tim felt a bit bad for the boy, but there really hadn't been time to explain. He nudged Bruce's arm therefore, motioning for the boy when the man turned to him.

While the phone was ringing, Tim tried to think about what they had to take care of now: they'd probably stop the artificial feeding as soon as the fever was down again, so they had to remove the catheter and convince Dick to eat properly again. They needed to prepare a room at the Manor, get all the equipment they needed from the medbay up the stairs. They needed to prepare a transportation without letting the media see what was going on...

So much to think about, and Tim had the ominous feeling that things were just starting.

* * *

**Jason**

_-A few days later-_

Jason climbed through the window, registering with pleasure that the replacement had spoken the truth when he promised the security would be off. Even with Bruce far away in another state and Alfred down in the Batcave to help the Bat Brats in Gotham, Jason still preferred not to walk through the front door.

It was irrational and stupid, also he suspected it to be _emotional_, but Jason just didn't want to take a part in the Manor's everyday life. Too much had happened here, and he didn't need an audience when he was confronted with the memories. The hospital had been perfect – neutral ground, common interest to see Dick well and alive. The few roof top meetings in Gotham hadn't worked out all that great, and so Jay wasn't thrilled when he had heard about the plans to bring Dickiebird home. Now he had to come up with something to explain his sudden absence, even though Dick was probably smart enough to figure it out and aware enough to be hurt by it. It sucked.

He didn't want to come, even after Tim had called with the (seriously amusing) chicken pox news. Alfred would be doing a fine job regardless of what he himself thought, Jason was sure of it, and Dick was out of it most of the time anyway. He had only relented now because Timothy had called _today_ again and made his bad conscience act up again. So now here he was – only the man of the day was missing.

"Dick?" Jason called, standing in the room a bit confused. It was full of heavy medical machinery Bruce had hauled upstairs for any emergency (and Jason really meant _any _emergency, judged by the amount of technology he had never even seen before), but the big hospital bed was empty. There was light in the adjacent room.

Jason smirked at the familiar situation and walked over to the bathroom door with a few quick strides. The door wasn't closed, so he just opened it and leaned in the doorframe nonchalantly, observing the scene._ Ah_, memories.

"We have to stop meeting like this."

Dick opened his eyes slowly, lifting his head from where it had leaned against the bathtub. "Jay."

"You look like shit," Jason couldn't help but point out with a snort, because really, he did. Jason was used to the paleness now, but it was amplified by the new shock of raven hair on Dick's head Jay was still kind of unused to. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the red spots all over his face didn't help.

"Feeling like it, too," was the weak reply that brought Jason back to the situation at hand. Dick was still sick, even if it wasn't cancer any more. The chicken pox had thrown him back again; for every two steps Dick made on the road of his recovery, he was thrown back one.

Jason walked over to where Dick was sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub. He was shivering, only wearing PJs. "I don't think you're supposed to be out of bed. Did Alfred force you to eat again?" A quick glance into the toilet bowl answered that question, _eww_. He flushed the toilet.

"He's _evil_," Dick whined, leaning his forehead back against the tub. Feverish, most likely.

"How did you even make it to the bathroom on your own?" Jason asked. Alfred would have a fit if he knew, but to Jay it actually seemed like good news: it had been a long time since Dick was able to walk anywhere, let alone without hours of cajoling.

Dick wasn't going to answer him, apparently. He had closed his eyes again and shuffled into a more comfortable position. "I like the tub," he announced instead and yeah, _definitely_ feverish. "The tub's cool."

"Let's get you back to bed," Jason chose not to ask if that had been a terrible pun or not and shook Dick to make him pay attention. "Can you walk or do I have to carry you?"

The question had the desired effect – Dick's eyes flew open and he grabbed Jason's hand to get up. Despite all the two of them had been through together, Dick still hated it to be carried around like a Disney Princess. Jason had dutifully co-complained when it had happened, though he secretly preferred to simply carry Dick; it was faster and safer, and Dick didn't weight more than an actual Disney Princess. If possible he tried to let him save his vain pride, only helping to steady him like now.

His brother was leaning on him heavily, swaying dizzily, and Jason tried to ignore how much he looked like he had during the early chemo days, when he hadn't had to shave his head yet. Instead, he decided to focus on the one difference: chicken pox, _heh._

"So, chicken pox, huh?"

"..._Ugh_..shut up, Jay."

"I'm surprised you're even awake. With all those serious illnesses you have going on."

Dick rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking to chase away the dizziness. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Dude," Jason carefully made the first step towards the door, and Dick stumbled after him. "I've watched you sleep for weeks now. It's not _that_ exciting."

Jason knew that he had said something wrong when there wasn't an immediate witty comeback. He tried to check if things were all right furtively, but found that Dick was looking at him somewhat guiltily; big blue eyes were peeking up at him, radiating culpability.

"I know. Sorry," Dick mumbled, slowly, and Jason panicked and tried to act as if nothing happened.

"I'm surprised Alfred didn't glue oven mitts over your hands."

_Shit_, what had that been? Was Dick coherent enough already to find some way to _blame himself_? Or was the fever talking? Jason wanted to shake his brother's shoulders and knock this stupid, Batman-induced habit out of him, but then he'd probably knock him unconscious. Hrmph.

"Like he had to do with you?"

"He told you that!?" _Goddamnit, Alf! _

"He tells me a lot of things to distract me from what I want to know."

Jason winced inwardly. _Shit._ They had reached the bed by now, and Dick sank down on it with a sigh. Jason threw the blanket over him roughly, but it didn't have the desired effect of engaging his brother in a distracting argument.

"You're not going to tell me either, are you?" Dick pouted and grabbed the remote control to elevate the bed end.

"No, I'm not going to piss off the Big Guy."

"One of the sentences I never thought I'd hear from Jason Peter Todd."

Jason smirked weakly and thought about the small package he carried around in one of his pockets, which was going to contradict everything he had just said a thousandfold.

"Seriously, what do you want to know? Bruce is out of town, I'm patrolling 'Haven. Tim and Damian are taking care of Gotham by night; Tim has to study for his summer school during the day and Damian can't enter your room without getting infected. Alfred would have a stroke if he had to take care of both of you."

"Can you imagine _Damian_ with chicken pox?" Dick was grinning, then suddenly he frowned and looked sad. "Tim dropped out of the school term because of me."

"Yeah," Jason really didn't know what else to say. Timothy was studying right now to get into some dainty summer school, which would enable him to get his high school diploma in only a few months instead of having to redo the whole school year. Apart from costing half a fortune, it would still be too late to apply for colleges this year.

So Dick was guiltily aware of that, too. Jason's thoughts returned to the package. When he had found his brother in the bathroom, he had decided not to give it to him. Dick needed to be aware enough to understand its implications. Now, safe and sound in bed, Dick made a much clearer and coherent impression.

"Why do you worry about his school term, you don't even know what day it is – let alone which _month._"

It was a cheap trick, but Dick actually fell for it. His brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate. "I think it's... Thursday? March...ish."

"Close enough."

It was Tuesday, but how should Dick know? They hadn't given him a calendar out of fear of having him tumbling into a depression, and as far as Jason knew Dick was still prone to fever bouts and tiredness that made him sleep for days. He _was_ surprised to see him that awake... and who knew when else he would get the opportunity.

Jason grabbed the package and handed it to Dick. He simply left out the 'happy birthday'.

"What's that?" Curiously, Dick snatched the package out of his hands. Jason had to smile; Dick was probably craving for distractions.

The paper was ripped off in seconds, and then his brother gasped.

"Don't have a stroke, okay?"

"Jason. That's a _gun_."

"Nailed it," Jason was acting nonchalantly, but warily watched how Dick paled. "It's loaded, be careful."

"A gun! In the Manor!?"

Oh, he was going to be bitchy about it. Jason rolled his eyes and strolled towards the window, snatching a cigarette out of his pockets. He glared back at Dick, who was trying to look equally mad (which totally didn't work out with the red spots all over his face and the messy curls on his head), and who now grumbled and pulled the blanket closer around him. Pleased, Jason pulled the window open and lit his cigarette. They had perfected those wordless conversations soon after Jason had come to Blüdhaven.

"Don't have a hissy fit, Dick." He sat onto the window ledge and blew smoke into the cold night. "It's for protection."

"Protection?!" Dick's brow furrowed as he unloaded the gun with a few professional flicks of the wrist.

"You aren't able to protect yourself if anything happens. And I know it bothers you, you told me after chemo." It had been one of the bad ones, when Jason had to practically carry Dick up the stairs. His brother had been a lot weaker than before, and the tiredness had always made his brain-mouth filter porous.

Dick's gaze wandered through the room, trying to remember. His memory was still blurry and incoherent, a sign that this current state of wellbeing was probably only a phase. Jason had watched Dick going through excessive illness and treatment regimes long enough to know better than to trust single bouts of energy.

"Bruce is gone most of the time and so are the Baby Bats. I'm in Blüdhaven more often than not. It's only a matter of time until the journalists will get that you're back, and then it'll be front page news."

"So what?" Dick asked, blissfully unaware of what was going on.

Someone was publishing photos of him in tabloid magazines, while they had no idea who might have taken them. The journalists were getting more insolent each day. Tim usually gave short interviews to keep them at bay, but they were getting more and more aggressive. At first they had decided to show a modicum of sympathy for the mourning family, but now, with Dick officially on the mend, Gotham's corruption was coming through again. And _Freeze_ had tried to escape Arkham.

Jason couldn't tell him any of this.

"Just keep it. You don't have to use it."

"I won't need it, Jay. Gosh, if Bruce finds out..."

"What if people hear you moved back and someone tries to kidnap you? That happened before, didn't it?"

Dick rolled his eyes, remembering his Boy Hostage days. "Yeah, but – "

"You're a cop, you know how to use it. Just keep it for emergencies."

He knew he had struck a chord with the 'you're a cop' phrase. Bruce had never gotten that, and there had been millions of arguments between the Golden Child and the Big Guy. And Jason knew about arguments with Bruce; they made you feel underappreciated and worthless.

Dick was silently debating, turning the gun around in his hands. The thing was that Dick really knew how to use a gun, and Jason always found Bruce's obsession to keep his kids away from them stupid. Guns were the ultimate means to protect oneself – they were light, worked far-range or close-range, and invoked maximal fear. You didn't need to _shoot _it to make _use _of it.

Thankfully, Dick had arrived at the same conclusion, since he reloaded the weapon with a deep sigh and opened a drawer next to his bed to dump it in.

"I'm not going to cover for you when Bruce finds out," he warned, but what could have been a really scary threat was interrupted by a heart-wrenching yawn. Dick still grew tired so quickly, and the gun had surely cost him a lot of energy.

Jason flipped his cigarette out of the window and marched back into the room.

"Do you need anything?" He asked while he pressed the remote control's button and changed the bed into a horizontal position again.

"No, thanks," his brother stifled another yawn. "Just make the room stop spinning, please?"

Jason shot him a careful look. He really didn't need to worry about his stupid big brother shooting at Alfred in a fever pitch or something like that. He had been serious with the gun-for-protection, but he was not going to risk any accidents thanks to misjudging Dick's condition.

Dick's eyes snapped open when Jason placed a hand over his forehead. Ah, another déja vu. Like the last time, Dick didn't seem pleased by the action, but Jason was relieved to feel only a slightly higher temperature.

"Can everyone please stop doing that?" Dick complained grumpily and tried to bat his hand away, and Jason grinned when he heard the first slurred syllables. Dick was already half-asleep.

"Touching someone who got chicken pox_ twice _brings luck," he declared and chuckled at Dick's unamused expression and the rolling eyes. "It's rare, you know?"

"Hey, Jay?" Dick's voice was getting quieter, so Jason leaned closer to hear it. "My curtains are on fire."

Yup, half-asleep and half-_dreaming._ With an affiliation for fevers.

"Of course they are," he answered therefore, sober, and patted Dick's hand as a good bye.

"No, really. Your cigarette butt must have ignited them."

Jason turned around and was cursing in six different languages immediately. Two nanoseconds later, he was trying not to burn his hands and ignore Dick's stupid comments about water pistols.

_-fin-_

* * *

***VZV = Varicella Zoster Virus**, is the mean little virus that is responsible for chickenpox, shingles, and other forms of herpes. It usually enters the body of kids and causes chickenpox, but in about 20% of cases does the virus stay in the body and reactivates later to cause other infections.

Leslie's reaction might come as a surprise to some of you. Since VZV and chickenpox are so easily spread but can cause so much harm (immune suppressed patients (chemo, AIDS, Lupus,...) can die because of the most harmless infection), she decided that Dick would be in safe hands at home as soon as the initial fever is over. Hospitals tend to deal with infectious disease very differently; in Germany it's a common procedure to send patients with 'lesser' infectious disease home when they're not in ultimate danger anymore, because it's too easy to infect a hospital (worse place ever if you want to stay healthy!). And hey, this is the batfamily we're talking about. Alfred can do open heart surgery for all I know ;

Sooo that was the last installment of the intermission story. The stage is set; we have the gun, the protagonist back home, the potential media scandal and a busy batfamily... I plan to upload the sequel next week, two weeks tops, so see you then!


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